Chapter 8
Eight
Tyson
Did Blair just give me finger guns?
We’re doing our walk through for the home game tomorrow against The Serpents. That means Blair has had her first practice, plus a special teams day, and I’ve heard from her zero times. I thought that this whole bizarre thing would bring us closer together.
Maybe not.
And the first time she sees me, she gives me finger guns?
I fall into the task at hand. We’re in the film room discussing the team we’re up against tomorrow.
Honestly, they’ve had a rough season—only winning two of their last five games—and this should be a fairly easy Cosmos win.
But while we have Blair to kick extra points, we still don’t have a field goal kicker.
I think the team is afraid to have her try and fail–they don’t want any dings to her confidence.
Field goal attempts are different from extra points–more difficult, with lots of variables.
So, the only film we fixate on from our previous game is our piss-poor attempt at two point conversions after scoring a touchdown. Not good.
I look over and see Zack shoulder to shoulder with Blair—her hair is tied back in a short ponytail, some of the chocolate locks falling on the nape of her neck.
They’re watching film and going through a playbook, giving her a crash course on what she doesn’t know. Which, honestly, probably isn’t a lot.
Blair has always been into sports, ever since I’ve known her, and according to her brothers, since she could keep up with them. It was never enough to know the rules; she wanted to understand everything—the positions, plays, and strategy.
She’s not one to half-ass anything. It’s something I love about her.
Something. On top of the many other things.
I rub my hands over my face, covering any of the red hitting my cheeks, because this isn’t the place to think about the woman I’ve been in love with for a decade. The woman who found a way to tie herself to me, in a way I didn’t even know was there, the first day we met.
College kids and driving in the snow were a horrible combination. Walking in it wasn’t much better.
She came out of nowhere—buried under at least three bags, worn-in sneakers on her feet, no winter boots in sight. One second she’s upright, the next she was tilting towards the bumper of a silver Jeep—about to slide right under.
I lunged, catching her around the waist before she could face-plant. “Got you,” I said, hauling her back onto steady feet.
Her eyes went wide, sunlight reflecting off pools of honey, and then she let out a strangled laugh. “Cool. Totally fine. Just practicing my new stunt routine. Thought I’d debut it here in the parking lot.”
I grinned, still holding her arm. “Not bad. Needs a little less… death-defying.”
Her cheeks were pink—not just from the cold. She yanked one bag higher on her shoulder, like it might distract from the fact I just kept her from eating asphalt. “Guess I should’ve charged admission. Front row seats and everything.”
I shook my head, fighting a laugh. “Now, that’s a way to help pay for college.” I reached for one of her bags before she could stop me. “Probably should wear winter boots or something if you’re going to be a pack mule. A simple suggestion.”
“Not a pack mule. Just a student athlete trying to make it to classes, practice, and the weight room. You get it.” She shrugged, her eyes locking on mine.
“Cheerleading?” I asked, given the whole stunt routine comment.
The laugh that skipped through her was vibrant and quick, her breath a white cloud in front of her lips. “Soccer. But I am flattered that, from this interaction, you think I’m that coordinated.” She smiled, and it was hard not to match her. “And I’m Blair.”
Not knowing where we were headed, I fell into step beside her. “Tyson. And I play football.” I gave her information she didn’t ask for, and then something clicked. “Does that mean you’re going to the mixer thing tonight?”
“Yes. My boyfriend plays basketball. We’ll be there later.” She stopped in front of the dorm doors. She reached for her bags, so I passed one over and grabbed the door for her.
Trying to drown the sudden disappointment, I forced a casual, “Cool. I’ll see you there.”
She tipped her chin to me. “See you there.”
Later that night, I saw her again. Hair down in loose chocolate curls, that easy smile already aimed my direction. When she spotted me, she gave a little wave.
And right then, I knew—it was the start of something.
Fuck. I’m in trouble. I’ve always been in trouble.
I chug the water sitting in front of me, trying to restart my brain, and a pinch of loneliness makes it hard to swallow. For the first time in a while, I feel like I’m alone even though the room is crowded. Just me.
And the thoughts that never seem to quit.
“I feel like we’re about to celebrate your eightieth birthday or something,” Teague teases as he slides into the restaurant booth. “We’re definitely here for the early bird special,” he muses while looking at his watch.
“If I was turning eighty, you’d be eighty-five,” I poke at my older brother as we open the menu. Since tomorrow is game day, I’ve got a curfew and a hotel room to get back to. Even if it’s a home game, the team stays together—aiming to keep everyone focused and in bed at a decent time.
He lets out a laugh, one that makes me feel like we’re back home.
We’ve always gotten along, for as long as I can remember.
Teague was always so excited to show off his little brother who got bigger than him really fast. Not saying we didn’t bicker or torture each other, but the fights were always short lived and we were quick to make up and get into whatever was next.
Teague moved to New York once he graduated from college.
He played college football and was damn good, but not good enough for the NFL—especially when an Achilles injury took him out his senior year.
The thing my parents always told us was that we could play football if we got good grades.
When we played college football, they basically asked us for a blood pact when it came to finishing and graduating with a degree.
We both did that—no pact required—and while I got the NFL roster spot, Teague is a fucking genius and works in data analysis at some tech company in the city.
“No, I love it. I’ll be home to help with bedtime.” He smiles, genuine and bright. Teague is married to his college sweetheart and they have a little girl, who is going to be two in a couple of months.
He loves being a dad and I’m fucking happy he gave me a niece to love on. Being closer to them was a big perk when I got the news about getting traded.
Once we order our food and I quickly sign something for a fan who spotted me, Teague presses, “How much fun are you having with Blair? That has to be wild.” He drinks from his pint glass.
I take a long swig from my iced tea. “It’s fun. That day was really something.”
Teague’s look is long and pointed, brows squished as he gives me a side-eye. “Seriously, keep it down. Wouldn’t want you to start a scene with all that enthusiasm you’ve got there.” He whispers loudly, sarcasm flying, hands pushing down on something invisible in front of him.
“No, it’s cool.” I shrug my shoulders. “She’s out here doing something no one’s ever done. Happy to be part of it.” I try to make it sound like I’m not talking about something like a loose paperclip at the bottom of a drawer, but even I know it falls flat.
Teague leans back into the booth, crossing his arms. He slowly shakes his head as he presses his lips together, before they morph into a grin. And then he’s laughing to himself, eyes glancing at the ceiling.
What the hell?
“Care to share with the group?” I try to sound light and easy going but if anyone can read it as bullshit, it’s Teague.
“You’re finally going to come clean. I can feel it.” He claps his hands together, rubbing them before leaning forward on the table.
I take another drink, my brows lifted, and when I don’t say anything, he rolls his eyes.
“About Blair.”
Playing as dumb as I can, I respond, “What about her?”
Shaking his head, he whispers, “Come on. We talk about everything… including how you think this might be your last contract in the NFL, but you’re really going to make me say it?
” His hands are flat on the table, his wedding ring clinking at the contact, and he lets the silence run between us.
“Blair. You love her. You’ve always been in love with her.
Maybe you’ve always known, maybe not, but now it’s different. ”
Choosing to ignore the one time we talked about how I felt my time was running out for the NFL, I reply, “That’s quite the theory you have there.” I respond without catching his eyes, because I’m this close to cracking. I feel like the bastard knows it, too.
“Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll drop it. Or, I could help you.”
He’s right; we’ve never had this conversation.
When I came home and told my family about Blair, everyone jumped to the idea of her being my girlfriend, but I quickly corrected them.
We were always just friends. And then she was my best friend.
And then she was coming home with me during some of the holidays, and my family loved her.
My parents always told me they’d take Blair any way they could get her.
Teague asked me about it once. It was our junior year, the third Thanksgiving I’d brought her home for, and she fell asleep in my bed.
I was in the hallway, grabbing blankets so I could make a bed on the floor, just not wanting to leave her side.
Teague saw me, peeked his head in my room, and asked me point blank: are you in love with this girl or something?
I scoffed, shook my head, and tried to convince my older brother he had no idea what he was talking about.
But deep down, I knew I was. I always had these feelings for Blair that were difficult to characterize. From the first day I saved her, even the night I saw her with her boyfriend at the athlete mixer, there was something about her I couldn’t shake.
Maybe it’s because I’m ready, or dying, to talk about it. Figure out what to do.
I let out a breath and come to terms with the fact that I’m caught. “What would you suggest?”
“I fucking knew it. All these years, I knew it!” Excitement fills his face and it makes me want to punch him in the arm so he’ll shut up, while also getting out a notepad and pen and taking whatever advice he can give me.
“What’s the issue? You’re back in the same place and you’re going to be regularly seeing each other. ”
The air hardly fills my lungs, and I can barely look at him when I say, “I don’t know.
She’s never made a move or said anything.
But neither have I. And now it’s the football thing.
” I know I’m not making much sense, no matter how much Teague is trying to keep up.
“After the game, she was at my place. She had some drinks and I was putting her to bed, all platonic like, and she said something. For the first time.”
“You’re actually killing me, you know that? Get on with it. What’d she say?” His voice matches the smirk he wears, glowing eyes to match.
“‘I always think you’re going to kiss me. But you never do.’ That’s what she said.”
He blinks, eyes wide, “And then…”
“And then she fell asleep. That was it. And we haven’t talked since.”
He tilts his head, eyes squinted. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t kiss her? After she practically begged you to?”
“There was no begging.”
“Why would she say that to you?” he prompts.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out.” I rub my forehead with my fingers, staring intently at the table in front of me, like it’s about to tell me the answers to all my questions.
“Tyson, are you kidding me? I know I’m supposed to be the smart one, but damn. She wanted you to kiss her!”
“Maybe she didn’t finish her thought? Maybe it was supposed to be… I always think you’re going to kiss me, but you never do AND THANK GOD.”
He gives me his best dad look, one he’ll get good use out of for the next ten years. “Tyson. That’s quite the fucking jump. Also, why do you leap to the worst possible scenario?”
Shrugging, I answer, “I can’t help it. It’s the first place I went.”
“I don’t know why you do that. Not only with Blair, but in general. You’re the nice guy, in the best way. You’re thoughtful and are always willing to lend a hand, but you don’t think it makes you worth it? Not to mention you never put yourself first.” His voice drifts at the end.
I understand what he’s saying but I can’t make it make sense.
Doing things for others comes naturally to me but I don’t expect it from anyone.
I think much more about my worth than I care to admit.
It doesn’t help that my job is centered around the same concept, of course under a different approach and lens, but it’s all what can you give the organization or are you worth what we’re paying you.
When Teague realizes I’m not going to bite—only one existential crisis topic at a time—he continues, “Back to Blair. It’s time to talk about it.”
“That would be way too logical,” I joke.
The truth is… I’m terrified. Afraid to ask, afraid to get an answer, afraid to put what we have at risk. When it’s out in the open, no more question marks, there’s no going back.
Teague’s face softens, like he can read my mind. To be honest, some days I wonder if he can. “You know you should talk to her. No matter what happens, isn’t it better to know? Once and for all?” My big brother’s voice hits me in the chest because I know he’s right.
Fuck.